Blossoming friendships, rooted memories
“Are these grubs?”
I was standing at my neighbours’ front door. I was wearing a grey hoodie with dirt up and down the zipper, old jeans with dirt on the knees and butt, and the T-shirt I’d slept in. The little gloves I had on were caked in a week’s worth of mud. I’ve been gardening. My neighbour Jan stared down into my cupped hands, two gross things wiggling around in some dirt.
“Yes.” As he said it, one of the gross little things waved its tentacles or arms or something around in the air, like it was taking a bow. The other one tried to burrow deeper into my muddy glove like a guilty kid caught stealing a cookie. Both remained disgusting.
Every year, I try to have a tidy yard. Every year, something throws a wrench into the works. This year, I’m terrified it will be a small, juicy white bug that’s waving to the crowds like it’s a prom queen. Hence asking Jan what I was dealing with. I was 16 when Jan and his wife, Catherine, moved here with their family. He’s used to my dumb questions.
“Yeah, they’re grubs. I saw the skunks out the other night going after them,” he said.
I’d seen them too. My lawn has lines of little snorffle holes that I pretend aren’t what I think they are. There has been diligent work going into this yard for nearly two years now. I’m pretending I can see results. The introduction of grubs cannot be an option.
“Is it normal to have them?” I asked.
“Sure, this time of year. Don’t worry yet,” he replied. “Hey, do you want some irises? I’ll be thinning them out later today.”
This is the best part of gardening. Perennial plants, the ones that are the hardest to kill, are also the most expensive at the plant getting place. I have perennials in my yard that are more than half a century old. Most of them double every year, and you can separate them and give them away over and over.
I trade with my neighbours. I also move stuff around my yard so I can shop for free. I’m currently cutting apart hostas which, if you’ve done it, you know is like trying to split a bowling ball with a butter knife. I have a big bed of tiger lilies; some have leapt their border rocks and are making a getaway through the lawn. I’m carefully digging up each one and putting it somewhere else. The grubs aren’t so lucky. When I find one, I squish it.
I was in my side yard later that day, and a little girl from a few houses down was tearing around the court on her bicycle. She’s a darling little redhead, maybe 7; she and her brother were the youngest additions to the neighbourhood when they moved in a few years back. I saw Jan call to her. She carefully made her way across his lawn. Jan is a tall, gentle man, with white hair and perfect posture. I watched as he bent from the waist, and spoke a few words to the child. Off she went.
A few minutes later, she was back with her brother and her mom. Jan was carefully giving them what I presume were irises. These are the bonds we make, and these are the ways we make them. For many of us, our yards reflect decades of what makes neighbours important.
There was a rap on my door an hour or so later. Jan had deposited an armload of irises in my front planter and wanted to gently remind me to get them planted. I did, because next year I can pass some along to somebody else.
If you’re lucky, you have the village it takes.
Just not the grubs.